No matter how many times he thought about it, the fact that his heart didn’t burst from hearing those words back then was a miracle—Min Yugeon recalled with a faint smile.
From that day onward, Seo Suho began to improve little by little. He took the initiative to receive psychological counseling and readily accepted Min Yugeon’s help whenever it was needed. His mental recovery had a positive effect on his physical health as well. When his leg, which had been slow to heal, finally recovered enough for the cast to be removed completely, Min Yugeon couldn’t contain his joy and hugged Seo Suho tightly—only to be greeted with a punch and a groan of pain.
After returning once again to Seo Suho’s home, Min Yugeon eventually packed up all his belongings from his family home and moved in completely. That was only possible because Seo Suho subtly welcomed the idea of living together. To commemorate the start of their cohabitation, the two even shared their first-ever drinking session.
Their daily lives blended together as if they had always lived under the same roof. There was no discomfort or sense of incompatibility from overlapping living spaces. They were able to enjoy a peaceful routine. Min Yugeon even began to feel that the air on the ship tasted sweet each day. It was a completely different kind of happiness compared to what he had experienced in school. He used to think that adulthood would inevitably mean separation, but now he shared a haven called home—waking and falling asleep beside Seo Suho. It felt like a dream.
The only real difficulty was that he had to thoroughly hide his feelings for Seo Suho. It wasn’t that he couldn’t touch him at all, but on days when Seo Suho initiated physical contact or when Min Yugeon accidentally saw his undressed body, it became a challenge he could not ignore—thanks to Seo Suho’s healthy and vigorous physique.
If there was anything to be grateful for, it was that they had separate bathrooms.
…Aside from that one issue, everything was perfect.
If possible, he wanted to stay by Seo Suho’s side like this for the rest of his life, taking care of him and being someone he could depend on more than anyone else. Seo Suho had already confirmed long ago that Min Yugeon was important to him, but it still didn’t feel like enough.
Desires, after all, knew no end.
Lately, he had even been trying—consciously and with all his might—to make Seo Suho feel his presence more.
“Did you rest well? You looked like you were sleeping, so I closed the door for you.”
Min Yugeon, stepping out of the break room, made his way back to his station. The area had calmed down somewhat from when the crowd was noisily chattering, but a few engineers were still at their desks. He nodded in response to someone naturally striking up conversation and thanked them as he sat down in his chair.
Just then, everyone in the room received the same alert—watches vibrating and emitting the identical chime. It was the kind of system-wide notification that only appeared when there was a critical announcement for all inhabitants of the ship.
“Gasp!”
A coworker, eyes fixed on the holographic window floating in the air, covered their mouth. They seemed genuinely shocked. The others were no different. Sighs and gasps spread from every direction. Min Yugeon glanced around at the murmuring surroundings and checked his own watch.
“……!”
Ripples spread through his deep brown eyes.
It was the death announcement of the captain.
***
There was never anything between me and the Captain that could be called a personal connection. The most recent time I’d seen him was at a demonstration, and the first time we met was on the day I lost my parents—and Rai.
“Don’t! Fuck, I said don’t touch him!”
“Hey, calm down—ah. Captain.”
“…What’s going on?”
At the time, the soldiers were trying to haul Rai’s body with a transport device. The moment Rai was shot, I broke away from Sun Woosung and rushed forward, stumbling as I threw myself onto the body. I clung to Rai, refusing to let go. And it was the Captain who came to me in that irrational state and said he’d grant me one request—whatever it was.
The Captain had always been composed and patient. I made an unreasonable demand, asking him to release Rai’s body into space rather than handing it over to the Disposal Unit. Even though he had to wait as I struggled to accept Rai’s death, he listened without protest—and in the end, he made it happen.
He seemed to carry a sense of guilt, perhaps because the incident occurred in a building he had supported. Or maybe it was just pity.
Whatever the reason, the Captain had been good to me. And no one could deny that during the long years he led the ship, things remained peaceful. That, more than anything, was his greatest merit.
I wasn’t the only one who mourned him. Many aboard the ship felt the same. But what about his only family? The Captain’s health had seemed poor for some time, but the death of someone dear always feels sudden, no matter how expected.
After work, I headed to a familiar place. Even though it was late, the space was packed with people who had come after hearing of the Captain’s passing. Surprisingly, Yeo Wonjin was still there, greeting the endless stream of visitors with a fatigued face. Though he’d just lost his mother, he now had to become Captain himself. His emotions had to take a backseat to duty.
Only when the crowd began to thin did he finally let himself breathe. He stared at the photo atop the urn. The corners of his lips, which he’d forced into a smile, slowly dropped, leaving behind a hollow expression. Was he even moving of his own will? Was this all just a dream? His face, wrapped in confusion and disorientation, made my fingertips sting.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight.
“……”
He looked like he might collapse at any moment. He clearly needed some time alone.
I didn’t approach right away. I stood still from a distance, then slowly walked toward him. He heard my footsteps and quickly composed himself before turning to face me.
“…Researcher.”
Yeo Wonjin’s lips trembled faintly.
“You came.”
I bowed my head in condolence, and he returned the gesture. Our last meeting hadn’t ended on good terms, but that didn’t matter now. As I stepped forward to offer a silent prayer before the deceased, I felt his quiet gaze on me.
Losing someone close is inevitable. Some lose family, others lose colleagues. One way or another, everyone ends up here. But the first time anyone steps into this space, the pain of reality is so raw, so sharp, it’s nearly unbearable.
And yet, Yeo Wonjin stood firm, seemingly determined not to show a single sign of weakness. It made me feel a twinge of pity. Maybe it was cheap sympathy—but I couldn’t help but see my past self in him.
“……”
“……”
When I turned, I met his eyes.
I wanted to ask him—didn’t he want someone, anyone, to lean on?
I was lucky. Even when I didn’t ask for support, someone always offered me their shoulder first. But around Yeo Wonjin now, there were only a few weary security officers keeping their distance.
“I’m fine.”
As if reading my mind, Yeo Wonjin spoke.
I hesitated for a moment, startled. Had I said something out loud?
“…What?”
“You don’t realize what kind of look you’re giving me, do you?”
He smiled faintly and pointed to the corner of his eye. It wasn’t the bright smile I’d seen before, but at least it looked natural.
“Actually…”
The smile faded.
“That was a lie. I’m struggling. The fact that I can’t talk to my mother anymore…”
“……”
“I still can’t believe it, to be honest.”
He lowered his head. Strands of his brown hair fell loosely over his face. His hair, his clothes, his shoes—everything was as neat as ever, yet the exhaustion he carried made them look wrinkled and stained.
I stood there, watching with a tangle of emotions.
“Researcher. I know this is an odd request, but…”
Would it be alright… if you held me? Just once?
His voice was so faint, it felt like it might break mid-sentence. His face was dry, tearless, but the restraint behind it made it all the more painful to witness. His lips trembled visibly, and his tightly clenched fists clearly braced for rejection.
But for me, it wasn’t a difficult thing to give.
I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him, drawing him in. His body went rigid with surprise, like he hadn’t expected me to actually do it. But if even a single hug could offer comfort to someone grieving, then that act held meaning for the one offering it, too.
Soon, Yeo Wonjin rested his hands lightly on my waist and leaned his weight against me. He was heavier than I expected—I nearly stumbled. I’d assumed we were about the same build, but I was wrong. His breath came from a higher point than mine, and through his clothes, I could feel a body clearly shaped by discipline and strength.
It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but I held him quietly.
Then I sensed a group of people approaching—probably another wave of mourners. Expecting him to pull away, I started to step back, but his hands remained firm. His face buried in my shoulder, he let out soft, broken breaths, and I couldn’t bring myself to push him away.
From the corner of my eye, I saw people entering the room. And among them, one person met my gaze directly.
Min Yugeon.
